I am feeble and sore broken: I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart. Psalm 38:8
The Psalmist is having a rough time of things. The Slough of Despair is a very real place with a great sucking sound of thick dark muck. All of the grasped at twigs and weeds along the shoreline pull up by the roots. Every effort is wearisome and somehow one’s own struggle only drags you in more deeply, up to the nostrils and gasping for air. For hope.
In Pilgrim’s Progress, Help comes along and pulls out the pilgrim and sets him back on the path of life. And such has been my experience. The mud washes clean, the air dries my jeans, and my core is strengthened as I turn and face the ranging purple with glints of gold to the North.
The light of mine eyes has returned.
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